With Passion'd Breath
by thievinghippo
Summary: They stood on the edge of a knife. One way or another, the time had come to fall. (Spoilers for Blackwall's final personal quest. Please do not read if you have yet to reach that part.)


_With passion__'__d breath does the darkness creep._

_It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep._

- Transfigurations 1:5

* * *

><p>He used to be a brave man, once.<p>

A man who led a company of soldiers. A man who'd sit proud on horseback, traveling the streets of Montsimmard, indulgently passing out _petit alms_ to local children. A man who learned quickly how to play the Game, even after being raised in the Marches.

A man who was good at it, even as he despised every moment.

But somehow he couldn't find the courage to walk away from this tiny dwarf with her calloused fingers and hypnotising light blue eyes. Someone who truly believed he was a good man.

A Grey Warden.

Moving to his side, Blackwall tried to get comfortable on the unfamiliar mattress, thinking of the years which had passed since he slept on one this plush. Lady Montilyet truly spared no expense when it came the Inquisitor's room, with the stained glass windows and the velvet bedspread.

He didn't belong in this world. Not anymore.

Thankfully his lady didn't seem to fit in anymore than he did. He looked down at Bethroot's sleeping form, curled up next to him, a look of peace on her face, an expression he rarely saw during her waking hours.

He once heard that dwarves didn't dream. Blackwall wondered if there was truth to that, rather liking the idea. The Herald had seen enough of the evil in the world during her waking hours. They didn't need to haunt her dreams as well.

Besides, he had nightmares enough for the both of them.

A small sigh escaped her lips and Blackwall felt himself responding. He had no right, no right, to be here, sharing this woman's bed and taking comfort in her presence. And yet the thought of doing anything else, of _not_ being with her, felt like a red-hot poker sliding between his ribs. Somehow he had become the moth to her flame and he couldn't imagine ever wanting to look away.

Taking a risk, Blackwall brushed his knuckle along the scar running from her lips to her right ear. Their coupling hadn't been anything like he expected, both of them slightly unsure of how they'd fit together, but passion had quickly overcome any doubts.

And as he had spilled into her, Blackwall closed his eyes tight, knowing he didn't deserve the pleasure his lady gave him.

If he had any decency, any chivalry at all, he would wake her up, apologize and then leave the Inquisition forever. Go back to being Warden Recruiter Blackwall, where he managed to survive thanks to a hunting knife for food and his carving knife for a bit of gold, if needed. Funny how many people were willing to buy a small wooden dragon made by a Grey Warden.

It had been a hard life, a humble life, but it had been a _good_ life. A better life than he deserved.

Bethroot stirred and Blackwall gave himself the luxury of watching her wake. Even with the darkness surrounding them, still very much the middle of the night, he couldn't remember ever feeling more alert.

She woke by degrees. First he saw her shoulders tense, followed by the muscles in her neck. Her nose wrinkled a bit as she frowned, only slightly. But then he watched as her eyes opened, those blue eyes that had captivated him the moment she asked, _"__Now where does that leave us?"_

A smile quickly appeared when their eyes met. "You're still here," she said, a hint of surprise in her voice and Blackwall cursed himself for leaving her with any doubt.

The quiet of the room - so far removed from the bustle of the rest of the castle - sent a chill down his spine. All he could hear was the sound of the crackling fire and their own breathing. A far cry from his small room off the training yard, where he could hear soldiers practicing their craft day or night. He never minded the noise. Felt good to be surrounded by people again after all these years.

He found himself transfixed as Bethroot raised her hand and tucked some of his hair behind his ear. It had been so long, _so fucking long_, since he had been touched outside of battle. Just her simple caress, the way she dragged her fingers down his neck, threatened to cause him to come undone.

Instead he let out a slow breath, ignoring the fire brewing in his groin. Her head tilted, waiting for his response so he licked his lips and said, "I wouldn't leave you, milady."

Her half-smile told Blackwall she didn't quite believe him. And why should she? What reason had he given her to remove any doubt? An embrace followed by a plea to send him away. A few spoken words and a promise of regret before kissing her like a drowning man and she his only way to breathe.

She deserved better.

_He_ would be better.

That split-second moment on the Coast, before he had picked up the badge, when he had the chance to tell her the truth, was in the past now. He could only look towards the future and resolve to be a good partner. A confidant, a lover, a shield, an anchor, anything she needed from him, Blackwall would give.

A rock-hard certainty settled in his stomach and spread throughout his veins. She would never doubt his place by her side again, this he would swear. She deserved the steadfastness of Warden Blackwall, not the uncertainty of Thom Rainier.

"Regrets are gone?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice as she threaded her fingers through his. Her hands were so small compared to his own. He felt the callouses on her fingertips and wondered of their histories and promised one day he would discover them all.

"Utterly and completely," he said, his voice low as he slid his thumb across her lower lip.

Her face broke into a smile, the same one she gave him when they saw each other for the first time after he thought her dead in Haven. The meaning behind that smile terrified him then, realizing just how much he came to care for her since they met. But now…

He leaned down and kissed her, quietly, gently, very different than their earlier kisses and thought about that smile. Now it meant hope. It meant he stood before her and she didn't find him wanting. He would do whatever he could to keep that smile on her face. To continue to be the good man she believed him to be.

And pray to the Maker that she never learn the truth.


End file.
